| KELARTICO / KELARTIC
|
PETE'S WAR | TO VOGĒR NĂ PĂYRE |
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Lying down buried in a field of rye | Ŭmusăz hamā in akor nă rān, |
't's neither the rose's nor the tulip's eye | năsī to rōze, năsī to duilbān |
Watching your sleep in the ditches' ol' bed | syegvĭllă tă ap n'hussāi to moken |
But it's a thousand red poppies instead | al să hoyl paupagān drăken. |
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"Down by the banks of the stream in my town | Anăr to spunāi nă mān trēnore |
I want the silvery pikes to swim down | vūll syetēndă illukāi gesŭnore |
No more the corpses of soldiers laid low | năpyŏs to kŭrgsāi nă soldātāi |
Carried along by the slithering flow" | ap to sūtrem gelād in harnāi. |
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That's what you said during Winter's cold kiss | Tevel dāynez in dyēn nă ventŭs |
And like the others straight toward the abyss | go kā t'ollŏsāi adpăr to miendŭs |
Sadly you go forth like someone who must | gīz getālistāt kā ces brauk gīstāi, |
Wind's spitting snow in your face with a gust | to vănd tă spăd in to kăr snyāg. |
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Pete you should stop now, stop right away | Stāi in Păyre! Stāi in nŭnema |
Let the wind blow on your skin while you may | tadni to vănd syetāne līg dema, |
Let it relay you the voice of the dead | nă mārdāi’n vogēr brēz to flŏssăn, |
Who gave his life got a cross back instead | ces syedudā gvīn hā syăc eno krŏssăn. |
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You did not hear it though time just went by | Аl năkudvāst yă, to zemān pērane |
Along with the seasons you'd march in a line | săm to yasadāi kā zyāva endaltāne |
Till you arrived at the border gateway | go dudŭlevāst im părsyepēraz lanvăr |
It was a pleasant and sunny Spring day | in en’ dyēn arvēn nă pranvăr. |
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While you were marching your soul on your back | Go zmenē marsynez săm lŏce gefārte |
Y'spotted a man in the valley's dark crack | gūmăn dărkvāst in băd nă to vālte |
Inside he was feeling exactly like you | syedinge tān vīsdu mātig go smēlig |
Except that his uniform differed in hue | al t’univŏrmăn săm cende năttērig. |
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Shoot him now Pete with the shotgun you bore | Sīd in Păyre! Sīd in nŭnema! |
Fire one shot and then keep shooting more | Go mon ‘no strāk, sīd in 'nākēma! |
Till you will see him drop down in the mud | Bes syedărkăz yă vatelēme |
Flat on the ground on top of his blood | pādūrus hamā, tūgūrus cān hēme. |
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"Now if I aim at his heart or his head | Go yă ansīdăm in bozăm au’n kārd |
I'll leave him time just to see that he's dead | zemān nămeis syet im syepād mārd, |
But I'll have time to look down where he lies | al mă, to z'mān mă kalsye'm syedărkăm, |
See for the first time a dying man's eyes" | syedārkăm āpāin nă gūm mārdigankăm. |
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While you reflect on a kind way to kill | Go zmenē yă fauvăz kalandŭr tut |
The other one sees you and turns in a chill | ne ŏmverăt, dărk tă go he baktūt |
Taken his gun he gets ready to fight | go impărūrus to artillerīye |
Pulls on the trigger, not quite as polite | tă ārnădā to kurtuazīye. |
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Y'dropped on the pavement without a moan | Pādvāst hamā aun eno darhūg |
And understood in a moment alone | go syavilvāst dŭmā’n eno dūg |
You would not have enough time to pray for | to z'mān tă syera năgingeterik |
God to forgive all the sins that you bore | im syevoskăz vien păr kāis masŭlerik. |
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Y'dropped on the pavement without a moan | Pādvāst hamā aun eno darhūg |
And understood in a moment alone | go syavilvāst dŭmā’n eno dūg |
That your own life was to end on that day | tān gvī syebădne in te dyēn |
And that this journey was only one-way | go syenăbūrra păr tă revyēn. |
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"My little Janet it's over today | Ō mān Mīnele, mārdestāi in māy |
Don't have the guts to be dying in May | braukuar kŏurāy pŏll go părpŏll. |
My little Janet, descending to hell | Ō mān Mīnele, ussŭd ad to gentŭs |
Would have been better in Winter's cold spell" | ram gegī pyŏssavūa in ventŭs. |
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And while the rye would its ears to you lend | Go zmenē to rān stodn' yă lăsnestāi |
'Gainst your own shotgun your arms you would bend | in to menăs tān gevren hăundnez, |
'Gainst your own teeth came out words of defeat | in to vehād melākāin hăundnez |
Far too ice-cold to dissolve in the heat | gefradūsvien im syemuldsyă in halāi. |
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Lying down buried in a field of rye | Ŭmusăz hamā in akor nă rān, |
't's neither the rose's nor the tulip's eye | năsī to rōze, năsī to duilbān |
Watching your sleep in the ditches' ol' bed | syegvĭllă tă ap n'hussāi to moken |
But it's a thousand red poppies instead | al să hoyl paupagān drăken. |